Not the Summit

Last night I watched my five year old daughter exhaust herself during gymnastics.  Abby was working on a drill by herself without any instructor to please or frustrate, yet she pushed herself to utter muscle fatigue.

The tears escaped the second our eyes met after practice.  "Mommy, I'm so, so tired."

"I bet you are, Baby.  You know something?  I'm so proud of how hard you are working out there.  I can see how great you're doing and so can your instructor.  And you know what?  You can rest at times.  I think maybe go slower sometimes.  You don't need to work so hard."

"Let's go home, Mommy."

Then I felt the zing.  The parenting boomerang that headbutts us when we've rallied against the machine.

You don't need to work so hard.

Those are the words I choose to usher my girl into her formative years?  Don't work so hard?  Will her teachers pummel me with spitballs for saying that?  Will her future employers write me a pink slip for teaching her the virtue of slacking off?  Will her future spouse forget my birthday every year because I've raised an entitled child?

I don't think so.

I don't think we live in a day and age where hard work necessarily always wins the good fight.  I think smart work does.  There is a distinction.  And I believe it's unrealistic to expect hard work to result in success every single time.  It won't.  And I don't really want my children falling into that antiquated trap.  Hard work will end in exhaustion every single time.  Which will lead to unfulfilled dreams, slighted passions, and built-up resentment as a result of punching in 12 hour days, plus a cruel hour commute in traffic away from the city.

I'm going to teach my children that hard work is a virtue, yes.  But it is not the most virtuous virtue.  Hard work to be married to intelligent shortcuts and updated thinking is what I believe brings happiness.  What good will your calloused hands do you they are reaching for the bottle of Motrin for your stress-induced migraine or worse, the bottle of gin to numb your pain?

With things moving so quickly online and kids needing to know how to interface well with websites, it seems the natural trend will continue to move toward technology.  I'm not advocating daily marathons of Mindcraft and Lego Batman but I'm also not entirely against it.  Those computer skills, after all, are the real-life skillset our children will need to have in their adult world.  No?  You don't think so?  Ask any new graduate from any college.  Even performance-based schools.  Entire musical scores are recorded, engineered, tweaked, and graded on computer programs that require more hours staring into a screen than practicing bar chords.

Hard work plus a dose of worldly perspective is what I'm after.

Of course I want my children to pursue their interests and their passions.  I want my children to know that you can't skip a practice from a bruised foot and expect to make it regionals.   But you know what else?  I want them to love it.  I want them to look forward to it each and every day, be fueled by it.  I hope when they wake up, they will be itchy underneath their skin for the thing that brings them inner joy, not outward recognition.  I hope Grayson will reach for the piano keys when he can't figure out how to ask someone he's been pining for to prom.  I hope Abby will turn to her art table when she's sorting something out about her crazy moody mother.

I think there is too much to lose from pushing our children to be better, faster, smarter, stronger all the damn time.  If they show Olympic promise?  Ok, go ahead and push.  But for the 97% rest of us, it's a push and a pull.

The push alone gets hard-wired into our children at an early age and before long, their natural curiosity dissolves into ashes on their Gifted & Talented diplomas.  We don't need more "perfect" adults in this world.  We need more imperfect adults who know true personal fulfillment.

We need more imperfect people who glean enlightenment in the doing and not the victory.

Ask any mountain climber why she climbs.  Not many will say the summit.

A taxed, frantic, relentless young mind becomes a neurotic, chaotic, unhealthy adult mind later on.  It's about learning balance early on.  Yes, please do practice your soccer drills.  But also please completely f*ck around in the backyard for an hour afterward without any catalyst or blue ribbon in sight.  That is where your happiness hides.  And sometimes it hides well.  I always want for you to find it.

Life just becomes hard work for hard workers, I'm afraid.  

But life is mysterious, rewarding, and delicious for smart workers.  People who have their finger on the pulse of what makes their generation tick.  People who understand what the hell Bill O'Reilly is saying and why we should dig harder than the sensationalized news channels.  People who aren't so booked every second of the day that they can't take a walk with their grandmother around the parking lot of Applebee's on a regular Thursday.  People who know the importance of following through but also understand regular vacations will keep their fuses soft and their mental health sharp.

People who know how to push themselves and also know how to pull back.

And parents who will let them.

Anna's Rare Bird

Typically, I never would've left a comment.  There were already hundreds.  Anna had so much love pouring in on her blog already after the accident.  What difference could one more "I'm so, so sorry" possibly make?

A world of difference, actually.

To me, to their family, to the wall of grief threatening to swallow them whole.

When a twelve-year old boy is swept away in a neighborhood creek, never to return home again, all bets are off.  Everything is wrong.  The world is no longer playing by the rules.

Adding my voice to the many hearts opened and hurting that day led me to care and awkwardly pray for a family I've never met, for a boy I couldn't fathom was gone, to a God I wasn't sure was listening.

The Donaldsons haven't left my heart since.  They haven't left the heart of millions.  I believe our voices mattered to a family needing to see miracles.  To feel unearthly love.  To know compassion on a larger scale than they have ever known before.

And we need them in return.

After Anna's book, Rare Bird, comes out that circle of hearts will widen and more people will be forever moved by their story and their boy named Jack.  More people will learn how to bring comfort when the worst thing imaginable happens to a family.  More people will understand how to keep waking up when the act of living does not feel like an option.  More people will have hope.

Rare Bird: A Memoir of Loss and Love 

By Anna Whiston-Donaldson

Anna's grief unfolds real time in Rare Bird, just as it does on her blog.  Her shock is delicately transparent as she tries to process the incredible trauma it is to lose a child.  Anna does not hide how she and her family suffer, fight, and struggle to be the cohesive unit they just were.  She allows us to see how every little detail of her life, even the privacy of her own driveway, is brutally unrecognizable.  There is no point in pretending.  Anna doesn't need dramatic words to help us understand her pain.  She simply describes her days, layer by layer, while we walk with her and force ourselves to breathe.

I rest a bible underneath my copy of Rare Bird while I read.  As if doing so will negate the outcome, somehow bring Jack back to her.  It's an unread powder blue-of-the-softest-leather-bible I bought at a thrift store.  I know Anna would give that purchase a thumb's up and coupling it with the story of a mother's greatest pain seems right to me.  It is my crutch when I want to deny the details of that terrifying afternoon.  Anna's words gently lead up to that indescribable moment when she feels in her soul that "...Jack is gone forever." A moment that riddles your arms with goosebumps that flush through to your toes.  Anna's honest disclosure is both horrifying and divine all wrapped in one. That glimmer of knowing without understanding how you know.

One of the first impossibles.

Anna goes on to reveal many more inexplicable moments.  Signs of Jack where there should only be trees.  An unexpected visitor who brings her peace when she only knows anguish.  Premonitions that would typically be cast aside as coincidence.  A deep connection that escapes reason yet somehow brings comfort.  Despite crippling heartache and constant longing for Jack, there is a connection.
 

 

Things that should be impossible but are not.  Because once you get to know Jack, you understand his life verse in new and fascinating ways. "Nothing is Impossible with God" is more than a collection of prophetic words.  It's a glimpse into a vast inter-connected place with the kind of beauty you only get from a boy with such soulful eyes.

You will fall in love with the entire family.  Anna has such gift with words that allowing you in to her world feels like a visit over tea.  Add to that her refreshing funny bone and you just want to ask The Donaldsons to wait up for you for their next camping trip.  They are each unforgettable.

But it is Anna's daughter, Margaret, who shines like a comet for me in this book.  She is a witty, real life broken-hearted warrior who inadvertently inspires her parents to keep going.  As you would imagine, Margaret tends to her own overwhelming loss in private ways, right for a 10 year old girl.  Her natural charm springs off the page, intimating at the humor she shares with her brother, the one that forever glues four people together, not three.

Living without Jack is not something Anna, Tim, Margaret, or anyone who loves him ever planned on having to do.  Nobody ever dreamed it would be a reality.  But now, after reading Rare Bird, I can see it is a daily reality they each must make on many different levels.  A choice that will never feel easy or right.

But one that is somehow, beyond all understanding, beginning to feel possible.

Five Scenes in Driving Over a Bridge

When we first moved to Louisiana, I knew I'd have to drive across the causeway bridge.  I've read that it is the "World's Longest Bridge."  At 23.8 miles long, the entire thing is over a body of gator lovin', fish havin', snake dwellin', shark inhabitin' water, Lake Pontchartrain.  If my mom is reading this, she has officially unfollowed.  She doesn't do bridges.

That little Lego looking bridge in the distance is the causeway.  It's not so cute up close. 

The first time I drove across the bridge, the kids were with me.  Which was good because you're less prone to pass out when you have trusting passengers willing you to remain upright.

"Just bweathe, Mommy," little Abigail offers with her lollipop mouth.
"Look at that PELICAN!" suggests Grayson as if I can see anything but the narrowing of my life before me.

But fear be damned.  Before long we are hitting the metal grid of the halfway mark and heading down toward the city.  Four more trips just like this and I am a pro.

Until I don't have my cheerleaders with me.

Last Friday, I took the trip solo.  As would be the norm with me, panic set in before hitting the toll.  Radio off, windows cracked (you know, in case I need to push them down manually - I saw that on Oprah), and heart in my throat, I remind myself to "bweathe."

Not only am I able to breathe, I am also able to have an entire Round-House theater musical on that 23.8 mile bridge.  Set to various numbers on the radio.  I am the Meryl Streep of The Causeway with nobody but pelicans to see me sweat.

Scene One:  Christian singer Matthew West's Hello, My Name is..
"Hello, my name is regret.  I'm pretty sure that we've met.  
Oh Yeah, we've met alright.  And I just kept on walkin!  Ain't nobody got time for you, regret!

"Every single day of your life, I'm the whisper inside that won't let you forget."
You might be a whisper, but I'm a ROAR!!  RAWR!  R o a r.  Meow.  Aww, I miss my kitty.

"Hello, my name is defeat.  I know you recognize me.  Just when you think you can win, I'll drag you right back down again, til you've lost all belief."
Ok, yes, I do recognize you too, defeat.  And you are one sneaky little son-of-a-gun. BUT I haven't lost all belief so YOU LOSE DEFEAT.  YOU LOSE AGAIN HAHAHAHahahahah.  Ha!  Ha.  Hmmm, this song is making me hate myself.  NEXT.

Scene Two:  Country Boy Dustin Lynch's Where It's At
"It's at 2am when she's reaching over, faded T-shirt hanging off her shoulder.  Dressed up, hair down, in a ball cap."
Hey, I do wear a faded T-shirt....although it's not a sexy shoulder hang one.  Maybe I should stretch one of my old shirts out for Andy.  "Hi Honey.  Here's my shoulder.  Am I sexy with my Flashdance shirt"  HahahAHAHAhhaha.  Ha!  Ha.  I'm hungry.


Scene Three:  Rocker Lady Pat Benetar's Heartbreaker  
"You're the right kind of sinner, to release my inner fantasy, the invincible winner and you know you were born to be....
be...a what?  Born to be a what, Pat?  A writer?  A vet tech?  A teacher?  I need to know, Patty...I'd love some direction and advice.   What was I born to be?!?

"You're a heartbreaker, dream maker, love taker, don't you mess around, no no NO!"'
I love you, PB.  You're more to me than roller skating at Wheel-a-While with Bobby.  Who, incidentally, turned out to be a real jerk.  And he wasn't that cute.  I should've had higher standards.  DON'T YOU MESS AROUND WITH ME BOBBY, NO NO NO! [throws one-handed rock and roll horns to the pelicans]

Scene Four:  Soulful Sam Smith's Stay with Me 
"Oh, won't you stay with me.  Cause you're all I need.  This is ain't love, it's clear to seee...but darlin' stay with me."
Man, this guy's voice is amazing.  Even his breathing is kind of hot.   Poor guy, he doesn't need to beg with a voice like that.

"Why am I so emotional?  No, it's not a good look gain some self control.  Deep down I know this never works.  But you can lay with me so it doesn't hurt."
Who wouldn't lay with you if you sang to them?  Sweetheart, it's ok to be emotional.  But I'd recommend finding someone else.  This one night stand has already texted someone to meet her for breakfast at Waffle House.  You can do better.

"Won't you stay with me.  Cause you're all I need.  This ain't love, it's clear to see but darlin' stay with me."
Just sing, baby.  You'll find someone at the studio, at the rock climbing gym or maybe Walgreen's.  That's how it happens in the real world.  You'll be ok.  Do you like to hot yoga?   


Scene Five:  Radio Off To Enjoy Some Silence
Whoah.  End of bridge already?  That was fast.  


Where's Wendy's?

Order Room Service

Parenting small children did not come easy for me.

As a hormonal, highly sensitive to the universe, I love me some quiet, Erin person, it was almost more than I could handle.  There were times I thought I'd check myself into a little room governed by psychiatrists, nurses, and lots of hand sanitizer but that never came to pass.  Believe me, there was this one day I tried.  But I wasn't needy sounding enough.  That's the thing about moms.  We know how to sound very put together when everything in us is falling apart.  Such a gift.

Before I go on, I have good news.  No, AMAZING news.  I made it.  Yes, my children still need me and I'm barely at the finish line but I made it through the hardest stay-at-home years of my life, raising my smalls.  Again, I wasn't sure I'd still be here to see the light at the end of this tunnel, but I'm here.  And you guys, it's the prettiest light I've ever seen.  It's worth it.

If you're wondering a few things, I'll try to pre-answer them for you:
Did I have postpartum depression?  Nope.  I took the survey, all checked out fine.  Was my husband deployed?  Yes, one time for 10 months.  Didn't I have any family nearby to help?  Nearby is a misnomer when you're talking Virginia mixing bowl and DC traffic.  Even those who tried to get to me got stuck in hours (4 hrs on a Saturday one day!) of traffic going one way.  Didn't I have any friends to talk to?  Tons.  Didn't any offer to help?  Yes, many did but I couldn't articulate what I needed myself.  And when I realized I needed help raising my children, I didn't know how to word that without sounding like I was 12.  People can drop in and lend a hand for a few hours but I knew I had to figure this out for the long haul.  Couldn't I hire people?  I did.  Sometimes it went well, other times not at all.  When you are already at your lowest point, hiring a babysitter feels as hard as building a car out of spoons.  Plus, all of your spoons are dirty.

You see, when you're someone like me you're very independent, stubborn head-strong, determined, and mostly positive.  You view yourself as capable and are bewildered that raising children is suddenly so hard.  How can little kids make you this depleted when you've gone to graduate school, got a teaching job, learned to SCUBA dive, and run a marathon all in the course of one year?  How is a nap schedule and Play-Doh kicking your ass after all of this?

Because it is, that's why.  Who cares about the details, it just is.

I know the details now.  Eight years later, I'm a scientist about the details.  I know that I need ridiculous amounts of quietude and space to feel normal.  I know that I cannot stomach sitting on a floor to play dolls but love kicking a soccer ball in the backyard for days.  I know I need music, not just lullabys.  I know I have to eat well or my brain goes haywire.  I know that structure, sleep, and removing myself from the noise of social media - especially the sensationalized news channels - is not optional for my psyche.  I know that I love to sing my babies to sleep in my arms when they're sick.  I'm a virtual expert on me, eight years later.

So, for anyone who's been confused as to why the job of raising young children is such a huge one.  Stop wondering.  You'll figure it out eventually.  Right now you have to survive.  Right now you have to get through it.  Right now your job is to do the hard work, cry sometimes, and laugh so much more.

Here's a quick guide that might help.  I'm calling it The Simple Guide to Living with Smalls.

1. Go to bed by 9pm.  Stop laughing, just do it.  Don't scroll Facebook.  It'll be there tomorrow.  And the same stories will burn on your timeline for days so you're not missing anything.    
2. Wake up before your children.  Yes, even the little effer  lovebug who gets up at 5:30 giggling in his crib just because he just can.
3. Sit upright in a chair drinking your favorite drink.  Not rum.  Trust me. 
4. Brush your teeth.  If you don't do this you will find a dry toothbrush next to your sink at 8pm, which incidentally, is the next time you get to think about yourself.  Floss, too.  Duh.  Always floss or else all the cute people in your life will stop wanting to kiss you.  You're welcome.
5. Get dressed while listening to music, NOT the TV.  Pick something uplifting that you like even if it's from the 80s.  Especially if it's from the 80s.  May I recommend this one?   Rock that tune in your grannie undies all around your room until you find the outfit you can feel comfortable in yet still maybe stop at the grocery store for emergency chocolate.  We've all been there.  Aisle 5.
6.  Make yourself a smoothie filled with all the veggies, fruit, and water you'll need for the next 6 hours.  This will be the best meal of your day.  The younger your children are, the more good sh*t you need to put in that smoothie.  P.S.  Spend the car payment and buy the Ninja Food System.  Add avocado to everything.
7. Make eye contact with your kid(s).  It's hard because those dishes, that laundry, those dogs, your hair, The Twitter...but look at them.  They're here because you worked hard to get them here.  They're here and they love you the most.
8. Answer their questions.  Even the one about babies.  My kids recently saw a cartoon of a woman getting ready to give birth and both of them couldn't figure out why her legs were up.  They couldn't imagine popping a baby out of her bellybutton that way.
9. Love your partner.  He/she's freaking tired too.  Like more tired than you.  Not really but what the hell does it matter?  It's not a Tired Competition.  Nobody gets a night at the Hilton with oversized body pillows as a prize if they win.  By the way, don't worry...you're totally more tired.
10. No seriously, love your partner.  This is worth repeating.  Text them funny texts.  Flirty ones.  Emoji ones.  Communicate throughout the day but about Date Night, not your jobs.  Your jobs both suck right now, talk about something fun.  Hug them when you see them at night.  Kiss too if you took my advice about flossing.  Thank them for running the bath, sorting the mail, making the appointment for the AC guy to come, not show up, come, and not show up again.  He/she is working two jobs at least, just like you.  But don't worry, you're still totally more tired.  Way.  If there is no partner and you're going this completely solo?  Please be extra kind to yourself and reward yourself with positive friends, exercise, and a healthy lifestyle that allows you little glimpses of what keeps you feeling like yourself.
11. Pamper yourself like you would your best friend.  You bring your bestie Gatorade when she's got the flu, right?  Well, you're worth it, too.  Stop and get yourself Airborne pills when your little snotbuckets cherubs bring home all the germs.  Paint your toes that funky robin egg blue.  That color looks cute on you.  Take your kid(s) to a store just for you and make them suck it up for 20 minutes while you enjoy your life.  They already enjoy theirs because you're an awesome mom, remember?  Buy that uplifting card you see... for yourself.  You need Maya Angelou quotes.  You need the pretty lady made of hemp seeds and butterfly magic that says Spirit Warrior.  Get them.  For yourself.  Then, buy the cup of coffee/tea/flavored water to enjoy on your drive home.  When the kid(s) fall asleep?  Drive around to get yourself another one.  You'd do it for your sisterfriend when she's sick, right?  Do it for you because parenting smalls is very much like being sick all the time.  You feel like crap while you're making everyone else forget you exist, see?  Same thing.
12. Play with your kid(s) as much as YOU want.  They just got here, they have no idea what's appropriate.  If that means 20 minutes a day, then rock that sistermom.  Seriously, do you remember your parents playing with you every waking second of the day?  I remember a whole lot of meandering aimlessly and happily in my neighborhood and in the woods behind our house.  Can't do that today, I realize, but my gawd, the children can still learn to entertain themselves safely within your decided parameters.  Plus, I tried playing with Abby all day long one time, not even getting up to get myself another cup of tea, and we were both in tears before 3pm.  Nobody was happy because nobody had a mom.  I became a 3 year old along with her and we both desperately needed a nap. 
13. Haha, here's the catch:  Play with your kid(s) without a technical distraction.  Yes, I know, I love my phone and my camera too.  So. Much.  But those two will still be here when they turn 18.  Our kid(s) won't.  This time of raising smalls feels like forever but it couldn't be more of a trick The days are long but the years are short.  By the time your kid(s) reaches school age, you will have more time to devote to your distractions.  And that's when you're going to need them.  Let your children be with you while they're little.  More importantly, let yourself be with them.  They're your memories too.
14. Give yourself a mid-day dance break.  Or several.  Freestyle is great but hip hop is better.  Because how precious is your little one trying to do the running man?   It's ok to bust out the camera too.  Fine, go get your phone.
15. Messes do not make you a horrible person.  They are a byproduct of all the fun in life.  Take out the paints!  Bring out the colored bubbles!  Be the master of a Play-Doh Universe!  If you just hived out reading this one then do it all outside.  But make the messes.  It's how your children learn to do things and how you learn to not do things for them.  
16. 
17. Clean up is for everyone.  Good heavens, please don't do what I did.  Please do not become the only person in your house who knows where everything goes.  Ask your kid(s) to help you put things away.  Ask them to sort laundry, then put away folded laundry, then help you do the laundry.  Your shoulder blades and your spouse/girlfriend/boyfriend will thank you for it.  Anyone raising children and trying to keep a clean house is already insane.  They need help and your children won't know how to help if you don't make show them.  Pretty soon, it'll become a habit for all.  
18. Give yourself a Time Out.  I'm not talking an hour or two at Barnes & Noble on a Saturday.  Not even three hours with your friends for Happy Hour.  I'm talking two full beautiful wonderful so very necessary days of rest at a hotel when nobody can find you will need you.  You need nobody to need you for a couple of days.  If you don't do this, none of 1-17 will help you one bit.  Trust and believe, if you're like me at all, you need time to defrag and reconstitute yourself for the hard week of doing it solo ahead.  P.S.  Order room service.  Turn off the TV.  Bring a book you've been dying to read.                                          You guys, I was so tired in this pic.  I can remember this day.  Abby was sick with a upper respiratory stuff.  I threw her a B-Day party where many family members came.  Andy was deployed and I wouldn't ask anyone for help because I wanted everyone to know I had it all together.  
19. Stop yelling.  It's not them you're mad at.  You're mad because you're sad.  You're sad because you feel like a monster when you're this low, I get it.   So you yell because it feels like all you have left to gain control.  We all do it from time to time because you're so tired you just need everyone to do exactly as you say or you'll drop.   But do your guilty little self a favor and stop yelling at your kids.  You're a big girl, close your mouth or yell into a pillow if it has to go somewhere.  Kickboxing classes are good too, just a suggestion.  Personally, I prefer Tae Bo but that's because I'm 40.  Your kids don't understand how tired you are.  They're new on the scene of life and haven't been that tired yet.  Let them live that innocently for as long as they can.  You can handle this.  
20. Let go of guilt.  It isn't serving you at all.  It's depleting you even more of anything good living inside your tired bones.  We all make parenting mistakes.  We all expect too much.  We all think we have to be perfect at this.  We all think they should be able to wash their little bodies by now because your head pounds with the despair of knowing you're not going to sleep tonight...again.  Forgive yourself of your mistakes after your kids forgive you.  Because guess what?  They forgive you right away.  They love you the most.  Now, you need to love you half as much. 
21. Write down their sweet words.  Draw with them.  Wrestle on the floor.  Play the board games you like.  Who cares if all the marbles fly off the Hungry Hungry Hippo board?  We all know it's not about keeping our marbles.  It's way more fun when you let some of your marbles go.

There's a light, you guys and it's the prettiest light I've ever seen.  I'm here now and I've found my voice.  Please don't let yourself think it doesn't get better.  It does.  Yes, you'll miss them while teachers/administrators/their friends spend their days with them but you need this time apart.  You will find yourself again and the best news is that the old you is happy you're back.  She's so happy you didn't give up on her.  She's so happy she's singing so that others like her will hear her and know it really does get sweet again.  Do the hard work, know this season of your life does not last forever, and definitely order room service when you have no more left to give.  Having no more left to give is a sign you need to give to yourself.  Guilt-free.  You deserve it too, sisterfriend.


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ukyq9NWJM0c

Shrinking the Moat

When first receiving the text to join them for breakfast, my mind reeled with excuses:  I have this cough.  It's the kids' first full week of school.  I ate crawfish last night and now my pants don't fit.  But instead I wrote back:  Ok, I'm in.

The Military Spouse Group meets often for various things throughout the year.  Sometimes socials, sometimes exercise, sometimes to unwind through designing wreaths and swapping numbers of babysitters who hang up wet towels.

Throughout the years, I've joined in.  I've clinked glasses, read Book Club books, and traded stories of endless nights as new mothers while our husbands worked their way up the ranks at new duty stations.  For the most part, it was always a good time.

But lately, I've not felt like joining in.  I've (rudely) ignored invitations.  I've hit the "maybe" button just to declare it a firm "no" the day of.  I've driven to the function, joined in for an hour and made haste to leave less than an hour later.

Why?

I think because I've made assumptions.  The wives here are so put together.  One is a ballerina.  Literally, she is a walking, talking, pixie-haired precious ballerina.  Another takes pictures of babies that make you beg your ovaries for one more try.  A few others have started their own businesses and are committed to their heart's work.  The last one has a gorgeous British accent and rocks Athleta outfits like she has forgotten she's wearing clothes.  I can never forget I'm wearing clothes.  Mine are forever tugging, pulling, scooching, getting pinched somewhere too rude to re-situate in public.  I remain, at all times, acutely aware of an underarm that's showing through a bell sleeve, or of a clasp driving a new bellybutton somewhere deep into my hip.

I assumed all these women weren't like me.

Yes, those are dog pajamas.  I need an intervention.

So I said No way more than Yes.  I reveled in No.  Bragged to my non-military-spouse friends about the freedom of my No.  Danced around my kitchen while those Together Girls had gatherings because No was so much more risque than Yes.

Then, the boomerang returned.  The distance I created to empower myself with non-comparisons turned into a moat of disassociation.   An island of women who move every two to four years, miss their family, and bleed Tricare were within reach and I pushed myself away because I didn't think I had my sh*t together.  A large well of fellow moms deciding to pause their career clock, like me, and balance their family on the small of their back were nearby and here I've been, walking away from them with an empty bucket.

So dumb.

This morning that changed.  Forcing myself into clothes that would gripe and fuss, I went to meet a large group of very intimidating  easy going women.

And when I got there, the moat shrunk.  Our differences became laughable while our similarities beamed.

One spouse just moved here.  She has three young kids, is a stay-at-home parent and is also a registered nurse. She told us a story about how she found out a bully was stealing her kindergartner's lunch midway through his first year of school.  My mama blood ran hot just like hers as she retold the story.  She dealt with the situation like a champ and we all applauded her instinct to investigate.

One mama mentioned her recent abstinence of social media and right away I went in for the gold.  "Are you happier?"  She lifted her gaze to mine and breathed a very full, "Yesss, so much happier"  Hmmm, I might have to try this, New Happy Mom Lady.

I met a rescue freak mama just like me.  Yes, her biceps and svelte yoga frame daunted me at first but before long we were chatting about her elderly beagle and the most efficient way to make food for a dog in kidney failure.  She adds baked salmon.

At the end of the table was another wife, cradling her week old baby in a front carrier. Next to her sat her own mother who told stories of living with her daughter in tiny living quarters overseas while the husband was deployed.

My friend, the one who texted me last night, gave us all hope that teenagers do come back after the painful "I Hate You" years.  Hers even lets her snuggle.  At sixteen.

When it was time to go, I checked the time.  Four hours had passed although it felt like one.

And I barely noticed that new bellybutton two inches away from my hip.

It's Always the Little Things

The hygienist making small talk with your chatty 5yo while she clearly has a raspy voice and pink eyes herself.  She's not feeling well but you'd never know it unless you had the chance to be two feet from her kind face.

My Sadie, a senior girl now of almost 13, lifting her chin toward the sun until she deems herself warm enough to seek shade.

An old friend from high school leaving heartbreakingly sweet youtube videos of animals on your facebook timeline.  Him having no way of knowing how you look forward to seeing them pop up when he sees fit.

Pledging only $10 for a rescue to bring a bull terrier mix to safety and seeing his freedom picture two days later.

A grown man giving a 7yo his favorite shirt to wear because the 7yo's mother forgot to pack an extra shirt for her now shivering son.

Your friend's silence as she listens, really listens, to you tell her how you are.  Her asking about *you* again and not your family.

Sitting down in a quiet place with a ceiling fan on.

A teacher's new tangerine top with the tag showing.   Her warm smile as she describes how much kindergartners can do.

A lady, maybe a fellow mom, smiling a big one after realizing you are waiting for her to go first at the four-way stoplight.

How Sparrow finds her Food Lady and digs "a hole to the middle of the earth" after eating dinner as a thank you.  Every time.

Telling a new mom you like her shirt as an excuse to meet her.  She was nervous too and now you have each other.

Sharpening pencils, signing your name in cursive, and packing lunches with autographed love note napkins tucked inside.

Playing footsie with him while he flips the channels.  And flips the channels.  And falls asleep flipping the millions of channels.

Listening to a stranger tell you about their shy little boy without telling her everything about yours.

Birds.

Just a few leaves falling in August.

Avocados.

Saying yes to a balloon fight, ice cream for dinner, and TV for at least an extra hour.

Tuning out media when it's fighting for justice, happiness, and wellness for all.  It has good intentions but to your mind it's still a fight.

The Beatles.

Watering plants back to life.

The first bite of pizza.

Interruptions from people who won't always want or need you right this very important I-made-you- a -cookie-with-black-frosting-and-an-orange-slice-on-top second.

Green tea.

Invitation to a secret club.

Recycling.

Sketched drawings of children.

Date Night.

"Reece-Out" instead of "recess"

Friday night Pizza/Movie Night waiting for you patiently.


What are the little things that accumulate for you?

When Sad is a Rabbit Hole

Sad is a rabbit hole.

For some people who experience feelings of sadness, it casts a pall over a canvas of normal, to hover for a day or so, and then it leaves.

For others, others that seem untouchable, sadness is the canvas and there are things to be done that cast a pall of normal over it.

Things like drinking cappuccinos.  Taking a walk with a friend.  Making people laugh.  Prescription drugs.  Volunteering. Things like going to work, having conversations, and coming home to go to bed.  Normal things.  Normal things that take more energy, strength, and willpower to accomplish than they should.  Because, for them, sadness is busy, so very busy, gnawing away at every molecule of goodness and light it can consume. It feasts on their energy while draining them of theirs.  Sadness is a greedy bastard.  It's obsessed.  It can never have one.  It keeps gnawing and biting and chewing until its had more than its fair share to slog around your insides like a sticky cloud.

Some people figure out a magic formula that protects them.  Their magic formula works!  It changes their chemistry for hours, days, and if they're extremely devoted to the task of meteorology, years.  They find their recipe to stave off sadness and they are euphoric.  They win their mind back before the sticky cloud makes its way to the tippy tippy top.

But then the formula changes. The cloud is back and working its way up, inch by healthy inch.  Your normal becomes warped.  So unrecognizable.  Off kilter and scary.  Unbelievably so, it is back to square one.  Back to search for things that will cast a pall of normal over their inner landscape of that dastardly cloud.

It's a never-ending cycle for those people who fight to feel "well."  They don't choose their canvas but they sure as hell try to color it pretty every single day.  To distract themselves, to fit in, to counter-attack the storm that is always brewing.  To hide it from others who might think less of them despite their heart not to do so.  Some worry if the cloud is catching.

This type of sadness doesn't have to eat you whole.  It will die trying but one day it will die.

May all of you who find yourselves in the rabbit hole give yourself more time.  More time to create another formula that wards off your storms.  More time to understand your struggles will pay off, are paying off today, are such a gift to others fighting with their heads down.  More time to feel how much you are cherished and needed on this earth.  More time to show others that it can be done.

Your rabbit hole won't spit you out.  You have to keep climbing.

In the U.S., call 1-800-273-8255

National Suicide Prevention Lifeline

Urgent Care

I've been pining for a "quieter time" when I'm in charge of my thoughts again.  Where the pushy conveyor belt of life slows itself long enough for your fingers to loosen, temples to cease fire, and toes to pop up before the lip of your shoes get eaten by the hungry metal seam.

Chomp, chomp.  Just once I'd like to see where it goes.  

Did I do this?  Did I make it all so critical?  Because for a long time everything has been on fire.  Everything matters so much all the time-  engineering lives that depend on me.  Raising a family is strange that way.  You are split in half:  wholly relevant and constantly disappearing.

Chomp, chomp.  

For years, it feels like I've been working in Urgent Care.  As in uh oh, your forehead is warm.  Crap, you need lunch!  PLEASE don't roll in the dog hair!   EEK, why are you wearing booty shorts?

For years, triaging.  All forethought, planning, and scheduling ahead, trying to predict who would be walking through the door in the morning.  Cranky girl?  Lethargic boy?  PMS Mom?   OCD Marine?  But sometimes we are all well and the kids are steamrolling on the couch, breaking legs off dolls just to "cast" them back on, and making "phshew, pshew noises with LEGO people that never run out of things over which to wage a seven minute war.

But I cannot take myself from this Urgent Care mentality- the incessant nag of more.  GAH, can you still read?   No board games, we need Vitamin D!   Man, I never took you to one museum, did I?  And so on.

For self-induced reasons, my insides are in flames that lick their way up and down my thoughts to create worries that feed on fire.


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Grayson starts 2nd grade today  Abby begins all day kindergarten next week.  For the first time in 8 years, I will not be working in Urgent Care.  That decade-long fire is about to go out.

And I'm going to sleep hard like a smiling dog in the afternoon sun.

Manifest

Sometimes I don't know where to turn.

The usuals aren't working:  the silence, knockoff Oreos, sideburns of sun on the too-tall grass in our backyard, or the third glass of wine.  Nothing, none of it's working right now.

So I turn inward and starve myself from connection, figuring nobody can touch what they can't see.  Then, in a mean twist of chemistry and human condition, I turn it outward and clean the crumbs from underneath the plate of a child who is still eating.  Nothing, none of it's working right now.

I don't go for the spiral, the deep dive down in to the well where things are just plain pitiful.  Mostly because that is selfish crap.  We all have this sometimes.  Nobody is saved from their lives.

But it's there.  The desire to be saved.  To be taken by the wrist, shown the way down the dark hall, sat down in a place I don't recognize, and held strong by someone - anyone- who means it.

I'm no more tired than you.  Not in the physical, more something else to do with your worn out soul-ical.  Your fatigue from life and mine are the same.  And utterly different, all the time.  Because it's work.  We all have it.  We wake up, nobody but us steers the day.  We look at the clock to see how much longer we have, as if a certain whistle gets blown at a certain hour.  We fix dinner we won't ourselves eat, we make more dishes like an evil boomerang.  I swear I just washed this knife.  We hide in our bathroom from more innocent chatter about impossible treehouses and Spongebob.  We are found by all sets of eyes, human, canine, and now feline.  We can't hide from life.  Life finds you and has you clock the hell back in.

Because there is no clocking out.

I never knew that.  I should've, but I didn't.  I figured there were diapers, formula, bouncy seats, playdates, wine, and then YAY school!  Oh, dear HayZeus, how naive of me to think there was a space between.  The only spaces I've found in between is laundry.  The beautiful puzzle of laundry that allows me to pine for sister wives, churning butter, and sharing a man who will only annoy the sh*t out of me once a month.

It's going to be fine because fine is what I'm after.  No epic knowledge of home making.  No epiphanies about child rearing or "finding myself in the mundane."  If I haven't found myself by now, there may not be real reason to keep looking.  I've been here all along, cursing, singing, writing, saving dogs.  It takes more than gray hair and eyebags to suffocate that girl who refuses to go out without a fight.

Manifest.  I keep saying this word to myself:  manifest.  Manifest the will to keep pushing through the muck and the sludge in the miracle likelihood there is someone at the end of this to hug me tightly.  To show me that love and willpower are, in fact, always met with the reward of a brighter day.

And by brighter, I totally mean overcast with over a 60% chance of rain.

Prayerful

I'm not sure when it started but we now have a nightly tradition.  At bedtime, after I peck their foreheads and mush their cheeks for another kiss, they ask the same question:

Grayson:  Mom, will you pray with me?
Abby:  Mommy, will you PRAY, not P-L-A-Y with me?  There was some confusion one night with Abby's request, leading to my delivery of a dissertation on effects of sleep deprivation.  She is seeing to it that never happens again.

For Grayson, now 7, we fold our own hands neatly, close our eyes, and chat with God silently for a few minutes.  Our main focus here is to ask God to fill our minds with specific lovely things while we dream.  But there's a catch.  He insists we pray for each other and not ourselves.  I find this fascinating.  Either my boy doesn't trust me to cover myself in the right words or he has certain requests he's sure I'll omit.

Abby's another story.  She likes her prayers out loud, up close, and centered around her only.  Our prayer is conjoined, outspoken, and sparkly.  Just like our relationship.

Dear God, thank you for these blessings we recognize and fail to recognize daily.  Please allow Abby to dream of rainbows, fairy wings, cotton candy, Pandora kitty, kissing Sparrow and NOT ______________.  There is always a fill-in-the-blank word she chooses with fervor like NOT SHARKS or NOT WOLVES or NOT GREEN BEANS.  My favorite is "NOT SECRETS because I cannot keep a secret."

The other night I was in a hurry and ready to collapse into a pile of laundry I'd held at bay all day long. Grayson sensed my rejection but held fast to our ritual just the same.  My prayer for him was officious, abrupt, and over well before his prayer for me.  This gave me a few seconds to watch his small face emote all the requests being made on my behalf.

A slightly raised eyebrow.
A tiny frown lasting milliseconds.
Eyes squeezed together and pensive.
And finally, peace.

"What was that all about?"  I had to ask.
"You'll see,"  he responded, tickled with himself.

That night I had a visit from Jimmy in my dreams.  It wasn't anything spiritual, heavenly, or even magical.  It was a favorite uncle hanging with his niece, talking over mundane things like wallpaper.  His voice was pure Jimmy- rich, mellow, and normal.

It was an answered prayer from a little boy who has every reason to be tickled with himself.

Vacations Aren't For the Weak of Heart

It's been too long.  I'm jumbled up and inside-out for not being able to write in the last few weeks.  Feels like my brain needs a good dusting off.  Many layers need sorting.

I'm a few real life errands away from doing work worthy of reading so in the meantime, let's just wipe around the lamps and magazines-

• We just returned from a few days vacation on the east coast.  
• 
• I combined visiting with family with a vacation.  It was eleven days of pinging all over in planes, rental cars, and boardwalks in effort to do it all.  I should know by now that for me Doing It All means immediate inner turmoil and a mini-meltdown on a lounge chair.  
• 
• We surprised the kids with a visit from their old besties from Virginia.  Their reactions were low-key and conversations picked up right where they left off while Tanya and I wiped away unnecessary mom tears. Kids and their impervious hearts.
• 
• If we vacation together, never invite me to the beach..  I will spend our entire trip disappointing you that I don't want to actually go to the beach.  Or go anywhere or do anything.  Unless you desperately want to listen to the seagulls while sipping hot tea on the porch.  In that case, let's.  I will pack two mugs.
• The boardwalk is prime real estate for feeling awesome about yourself.  Anything goes.  And sometimes some of it has yet remains scantily clad.  Rock on, rounding curves and aging muscles.  You too deserve the light. 
• My mom's house is now a time machine that makes me walk around daydreaming about my little brother's elementary school years (he's 22 now).  Standing in his closet remembering the days he wore funny T-shirts, teenage-slouched in his oversized hoodies, and turned pink when he laughed.
• My own children seem older and more present in my mom's house.  Gone are the days I hover or refill sippy cups.  My favorite thing in the world now is to watch Mom listen to Abby.  Abby speeds up and Mom's face searches for anything meaningful.  It's like Diane Keaton meets Reece Witherspoon.  So, so funny.
• Grayson still thinks my mom and Grandpa T are Santa Clause.  When I'm not in the room, apparently he places his order for the next LEGO piece his shelves can't live without.
• My little nephew dances just like his father.  I wish we could see this more often in person.  And more of my brother's sweet family.  
•   
• East coast waters are frigid in July.  Living in Louisiana for a year has spoiled me and now I fully expect all natural waters to be bubble baths leading into a jacuzzi.
• 
• Abby is terrified of sharks.  This made the beach trip and surrounding aquatic themed EVERYTHING so much fun for her.  I have sore arms from carrying her little near 6yo frame so she could hide her eyes from all of Ocean City.  
• Leaving my family is increasingly difficult for me and taken in stride with my kids.  Their youth and their "military kid" lifestyle seems to be giving them an edge over change and loss.  I'm impressed at their fortitude and maybe a little envious.  Andy always stops at Dunkin Donuts because husbands don't mind spending $5 on a hot drink that might dry up the sads.
• If I never see another arcade, token machine, or ticket counter, it will be all too soon.  We took kids to the arcade so many times it began to feel like an Examiner headline:  Family of Four Rot and Perish at Prize Counter Because 5yo Could Not Decide Between Pink or Purple Slinky. There is not enough cotton in the world to mute out the hellish cacophony of that place.  I might actually hate it.
• 
• When asked what their favorite part of vacation was, the children both agree:   The arcade and visiting with their old buddies from home.  Sacrifice is often worth it. 

Pandora's Box

It seems our world has been enlightened.

We have a new family member that I haven't formally introduced yet.  Her name is Pandora and this is her story:

On Father's Day, I am doing what all derelict wives are doing - coming home from Wal-Mart with last minute Father's Day gifts.  Reveling in my hour long child-free shopping trip, I decide to take the interstate home for a moment with the open road.

It takes nearly five whole minutes of driving down the wrong direction on the interstate for me to realize I am, as usual, headed west when I need to go east. The nearest turn around spot takes me to a busy parkway, where everyone is speeding up to merge instead of slowing down.

Oh man, is that a half-smushed bird in the road?   I swerve hard to the right so as not to add insult to obvious and miserable injury.

My God.  It's a KITTEN!    And the kitten isn't dead at all, she is dragging her lifeless legs toward the median like the tiniest warrior I've ever seen.  Mouth wide open in a battle-cry, she is heaving her good legs - one front and one hind- to propel herself away from zooming cars and toward the safety of tall grass and swarms of ants.

You can do this, you can do this, you can do this!  My van and I are parked with hazard lights on before I rationalize how stupid it is to try to chase a traumatized creature on the median of a busy road.

(No cars taken in this pic as it was taken days later, but it was insane on Father's Day)

You're gonna be ok, You're gonna be ok, You're gonna be ok.  I gallop from shoulder to median eyeing dry grass for any movement.

With nothing but my thrapping heart and jingling car keys, I stand without a towel, extra shirt, or even large cup, in which to put her...if I find her at all.

A few feet in the opposite direction of where I think the kitten is hiding, I see a flattened piece of cardboard.  My head on a swivel, I grab the cardboard piece and galumph through the grass with bumblebees like a dizzy antelope.  (Oh no, I'm sure that's not scary at all to a wee kitten running for her life.)

You can do this, you can do this.

 If I'm able to get to her, I'm now positive she'll shoot toward the street again to get away from the crazy panting monster leering at her spouting Tony Robbins inspirations.

There you are, you dear little thing.  

I lay one hand on her speckled gray coat and use the other to put the hunk of cardboard on the curb that she is hugging so she can't dive toward traffic.

We stay like that for many minutes.  She lets me pet her until finally her open mouth lets out a silent cry that guts me from the inside out.  We are not having a picnic, this girl is in trouble.  She is in serious pain and I need to get her out of here now.

You can do this.  We can do this.  This is happening.

I quickly lift her scruff and she doesn't even flinch.  Holding her a few inches off the ground gives me no comfort as to well-being.  Her limbs just hang this way and that.  Some look broken, some look to have simply given up.

I scoot the cardboard piece under her before realizing it's actually a dilapidated box.  Not much of one anymore as I re-assemble its ripped up sides but enough to act as her safe house for a while.

She lets me slide her right in.  Her terrified golden eyes are the last thing I see before clutching that box in my arms like it is a bomb ready to explode.

Well, shit.  I can't just stick you in the carseat, can I?    

If you've ever try to extract a petrified cat from your vehicle, you'll know this only ends in cat urine all over your upholstery and slices down your arm that may or may not need stitches.

(Yep, she's in there.) 

I have no choice but to trust she's too tired to fight.  I put her in Abby's carseat, tell her she's going to be ok now, and drive like hell to the nearest open animal hospital.  

Then, somehow text my husband.

Hi Honey.  Pls don't be mad but I found kitten in road and now at vet.  Will text soon.  Happy Father's Day.

Within a few minutes, he writes back, "Do what you gotta do," and I fall in love with him again.  You see, Andy hates cats.  He doesn't hate anything but he hates cats.  He has allowed many dogs in our home throughout the years but has never bent one millimeter with his rule of no cats, ever.

So I sit in the waiting room - half adrenalized and half wondering what will happen to our bank account when the doctor comes in.

Two hours later, Doc tells me the kitten looks bad but is stable.  Do I want to continue with feline leukemia test?  Yes, I do.  What''s going on with her?  Kitty has sustained a lot of injuries and a possible head trauma as one pupil is blown.  Kitty's x-rays show no broken bones but she does have legs that have serious ligament injuries, front much worse than hind.  It will be more than likely she'll need her leg removed before long.  She will need observation overnight.  Do I need a coffee?  No, just a job please.  We are hiring.  I'll take an application.  Thank you.  No, thank you.  Have you named her yet?  I haven't even seen her yet, really.  What does she look like?  She's gorgeous.  And tiny, only 2 lbs.  Would you like me to bring her out.  Yes, let me put on some lipgloss.  





Well Hello you little warrior princess.

I name her Pandora because she is stunning, strong, and let me put her in the saddest little box I've ever seen.  I name her Pandora because it's a name I love and I'm pretty sure I already love her, too.  Warrior kittens don't come across my path everyday.  When they do, I illegally park my minivan to help them get to safety.  Forever.  I'd be crazy not to.

******************************

An update on Pandora or Pandy Paws as we call her:

She has come along beautifully!  She has gained weight and is now over three pounds.  Pandy Paws no longer has worms, fleas, or any disease at all.  She still cannot feel or technically use her front right paw but has been using the rest of her legs quite well.  I cannot see any defects in any of her other legs.  Our regular vet assessed her recently and discovered there is a teeny-weeny bit of feeling returning to her injured paw so we will give her much more time and kitty PT to see if she can keep it.  We are so hopeful.   And our vet says there isn't any sign whatsoever or head trauma so another win!

Pandy Paws hasn't officially been integrated in with the dogs yet.  Sadie scares her which is hysterical because Sadie is more afraid of cats than anything else in the world.  Sparrow has whined, pined, and cried for Pandy ever since she sniffed her here.  We hope this is maternal (Sparrow had a litter of pups before we adopted her.) and not carniverous.  Needless to say, introductions are going well but very, very slowly.

The kids' summer has been filled with kitty snuggling, kitty feeding, kitty play-scratches, and kitty bedtime stories.

Life with a kitten is a very good life, indeed.